


until the night, until the night

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - San Junipero, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 05:37:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17016744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: It isn't Manchester.





	until the night, until the night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anemoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/gifts).



> Kinnnnd of a sequel to [the only one I know](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11316762) but you don't have to have read it! basically becks is still the same and gaz is a bartender who owns the *finger guns* Sally Cinnamon and they met a long time ago and pined their wee lil hearts out
> 
> For Shawon ... shoves this half nev sandwich into ur mouf :**

 

 

It isn't Manchester.

That's the thing they keep telling him to remember. It isn't Manchester.

Awful like it, though. Streets kind of like the ones he grew up on, red brick buildings with the curved corners and pale windows. Someone's gone to enormous lengths to rebuild the Hacienda, although you can sort of tell everything's been cobbled together from Google Images. He runs his fingers over the yellow-black stripes of paint down the rivet-pillars. Laughs at himself: it's not like he was ever in here enough to tell how accurate it is.

The music they're playing is standard stuff: New Order, of course, some Oasis, Charlatans. He dips his head with the movement of someone who isn't used to dancing but knows the songs by heart anyhow. The crowd's grooving to the jammy piano riffs of Tony Rogers but he makes his way to the bar instead, where they'll have the beer he isn't allowed to drink.

He's two pints in when someone slides into the seat next to him and says _whiskey, please_ , in an oddly familiar voice.

He looks around. There's a shock of blonde hair, boyish grin, hazel eyes.

 

 

 

 

00:00

 

 

 

 

"I think I saw him," Gary says.

"Saw who?"

"David."

Scholesy makes a face.

"Him, there?"

His tone isn't designed to hurt, but it does anyway. Gary bites his lip. "Looked like him."

"Gaz."

Scholesy sounds like he's going to say something else, but he doesn't. Just leans forward and plucks the chip from Gary's skin.

 

 

 

 

19:00

 

 

 

 

He goes straight back to Old Trafford, or whatever its approximation is. At least it's got the same rafters and the trinity stands still outside. The stadium is usually only half-full – not enough population for the streets, let alone the ground – but Gary has difficulty finding a seat this week, wedging himself at the back of Tier 2, craning his neck to get a view of the players below.

'Ninety-four. He'd been in the same tier, watching the same blonde boy.

Flash Cockney. Hometown hero.

David Beckham gets the kind of roar of approval only David Beckham can get. There are enough strangers that it isn't a welcome home, really; there are people here who know him purely because of the things he did after football, kids who'd listened to the Spice Girls. This isn't the game against Milan so much as a celebrity sighting.

Gary is jostled by the people in front of him, seats forgotten. He tries to keep the pitch in his line of sight. David isn't the first person to come back and play for the pseudo-United, but he's one of the most familiar – the free kicks he takes, the crosses he makes are the same. He sends the ball into the box and there's a scuffle and they score. Gary jumps up like the people around him.

It isn't the same, it isn't the same. That's as much of a lie as anything else.

 

 

 

 

He's swamped after the game in the Hacienda. In Manchester it'd been _the_ place to be but you could always get a quiet drink elsewhere; here it's the _only_ place to be, at least while the rest of it's steadily populated, so naturally everyone follows him in. Packed nose to nose like a sardine tin. Gary sits in one of the booths and watches the surge at the bar, not sure if he'd want to go and talk to him in the first place.

David's maybe twenty-four, twenty-five in this version of himself. Looks exactly like he'd stepped off the pages of the magazines in the nineties, not a single hair awry. Like the ones Gary had hidden in the drawer under the counter until he'd had Scholesy throw them away. He wonders if David would remember him at all, or if he'd already begun to forget the last time they'd seen each other over the buzz of the crowd.

Stupid. Stupid. You mustn't get tied up in these things, Neville. You mustn't pretend.

All of this is pretend.

It's as real as you want it to be.

Gary stands up. His ears are ringing. He shoves his way towards the bar, getting beer over the front of his shirt, someone swearing at him. There're still loads of people in between them. Clamouring to buy David a drink or get an autograph or something, even though they know they won't be able to bring it back with them. Maybe these are all locals. Maybe they don't have anywhere else to go.

23:59

He looks down at his watch, then back up. He's maybe ten feet away from the bar. It feels like the post-match throng flooding in after a two-nil game. Gary's throat constricts. Suddenly it's a pub on Canal Street and he's scrubbing the bare patch on the counter and his fingertips are bloody. He keeps fighting through the bodies, floats, falls, doesn't think, dances.

The boy with the hair the colour of sunshine looks over and catches his eye.

00:00

 

 

 

 

He isn't there the next week. Somehow Gary didn't expect him to be. He goes to Old Trafford, same as, watches the game. None of them play particularly well.

 

 

 

 

23:30

 

 

 

"Gary?"

 

He looks up. David's sat right next to him, hand curled around a glass of Haig Club whiskey; he doesn't even need to ask.

"It is you." David's smile is as warm and friendly as he remembers. The same smile he's given to every pap in the world, Gary has to remind himself.

"Yeah."

The brusqueness of Gary's reply must have been unexpected, because the grin slips momentarily off David's face before resuming. He's good at that.

"I saw you two weeks ago."

"I know. I was sat next to you the week before that."

"Yeah?"

"Brief, like." Gary shrugs. "Time was up."

David presses his lips together. Gary knows that look, like he's trying to think of something to say. Gary knows so much about him that he hadn't thought of for years and it almost physically hurts, like punching himself in the face.

"How've you been?" David asks, eventually.

"All right, like."

"Still running the pub?"

Gary laughs. "Would I be here if I were?"

A wince crosses David's face. "I suppose not."

"How about you?"

It's a stupid question and they both know it. Of course Gary knows how David has been. The whole world knows; any slow, inevitable descent of a public figure is always well-documented by tabloids. He hadn't lost his figure, but he'd lost his age, and in some ways that was all brand Beckham ever was.

Football goes on, and so does advertising, so does life. David rolls his shoulders back in a shrug.

"I've been all right."

Gary looks down at his watch. They've got maybe fifteen minutes. He tries to find something to say, some kind of small talk, a comment about United's current form, but nothing really comes to mind except the question he wants to ask.

"Why are you here?"

David takes a slow sip of his whiskey. When he sets it down it is still in the middle of the water ring.

"Same as everyone, I suppose."

Everyone wants to be young again. There'd been songs, movies written about it. Gary hides a grin that comes to him without asking; he wasn't here because of that, and therein lay all the difference.

Maybe David sees his expression, because he laughs a little. "Most of us."

All of it – seeing David, twenty-five years young, the Hacienda, the city where they'd first met – chalks up to that, then. Softer than a punch. Not something he can put into words. Only that David _knows_ him, knows everything he thinks, even now. Even now.

"Do you want to go outside?" 

He doesn't look back at David as he downs his drink.

"Okay."

It's quieter out, the Inspiral Carpets reduced to a dulled thumping bass line against the brick. Gary settles in against the wall and closes his eyes. David presses a palm flat above his shoulder, leans forward till he's only a few inches away.

"Used to hear this song all the time."

"Yeah."

David starts humming along to the muffled music, and Gary grins, the smile stretched thin over his lips.

"Can't afford a radio."

"I'll buy you one." David smiles back, dry. "One of those jukeboxes."

"None of that Beatles shite."

"This is how it feels to be lonely."

He is so close Gary can see all of his eyelashes, lovingly, perfectly rendered.

"This is how it feels to be small."

 

 

 

 

00:00

 

 

 

 

Phil and Scholesy had taken the pub after, but business was drier nowadays; mostly old hands or politely interested tourists, the draw of the North fading with each passing year. Football in its highly commoditised form did not loyalty make. Nor was there ever a second coming of Britpop and Oasis. Manchester was never only football and music, but they'd mattered in a way other things hadn't, and soon there were only railroad tracks and large brick buildings proclaiming _EST. 1896_ in fading paint.

So they built this instead. San Junipero. What had started out as virtual reality became _real_ , older generations clamouring for something that an imagined beachtown couldn't provide. And here he was. Here he is. He'd spent all of his life telling himself never to look back.

 

 

 

 

"Come on."

"No fucking way."

"Come _on_. Anyone can play."

David's dragged him to the mouth of the players' tunnel; beyond that Gary can see people warming up in red tracksuits, the names changing every week depending on who had put theirs down. Anyone can play. He looks up at the floodlights of the East Stand, different from the ones he used to sit under as a lad in his Bobby Robson shirt.

You can't play. Sorry, Neville. Maybe you want to consider other clubs.

Gary puts his hand behind David's shoulder and gives him a gentle shove. "You go on."

David plays, right foot, left arm, leaning into the free kick. If Gary closes his eyes he could draw the curve of the ball.

He waits for David outside the player's tunnel, mashed in with the grown-up boys who used to wait for autographs along the barrier. "Has anyone ever told you you're too pretty to play football?" he asks by way of heckling, and David rolls his eyes.

"Let's not go to the Hacienda today."

"It's not the Hacienda," Gary says automatically.  The thing they keep telling him to remember. David flicks him a wry little glance.

"Let's not go to the club today."

"Where should we go?"

"Let's just take a walk."

"Okay."

They turn down to follow not-Bridgewater Canal. The lights of not-MediaCity are shimmering over the bay, and beyond that not-Eccles that wasn't important enough to be developed. Water sits quietly next to their feet. David in his track top and shorts huddles closer to Gary, who wraps an arm around him without thinking.

Over the bridge, Castle Street, tram tracks running on an old brick archway. Deansgate. Gary notices that David's looking intently at everything, a frown creasing his face as he concentrates. Rochdale Canal, Oxford Road. It's only when they turn on Sackville Street that Gary cottons on.

"Becks."

"Have you been?"

"No."

He drops his arm from David's shoulder. Squares his jaw, digs his fingers into his pockets. David walks on, oblivious, like a boy living in his imagination.

"They're all just empty."

"Yeah. A lot of people didn't want to give permission."

"People like you."

"People like me."

Gary follows, because he can't do anything else. They turn on the corner of Oldham and Warwick and David nods upwards.

"They kept the signboard, at least."

Brick above, pub below. The signboard's the wrong colour and doesn't say anything. The windows are frosted over and dark inside. There's still the back door that leads out onto Tib Street. The steps where the two of them had sat a long time ago, close enough to touch their knees. Gary kicks at the loose gravel on the road.

"Phil and Scholesy run it now."

David beams. "How are they?"

"A'ight. 'Least Scholesy's grumpy old man persona fits his face now."

Gary looks up at David, who's watching him carefully, face half-awash in the glow of the streetlamp further down the road. He's balanced on the edge of the curb, one foot on the double yellow line that means no parking allowed.

"I don't know what I'm waiting for," he says.

They're older now, even though they don't look it. Gary drags his feet as he walks back towards David, hands still in his pockets. Tilts up to kiss David, gently, on the cheek. Quiet enough that it can't mean anything else.

 

 

 

 

00:00

 

 

 

 

"These."

Scholesy waves an indeterminate hand.

"These meet-ups."

"Yeah?"

"How long?"

Gary purses his lips.

"How long what?"

Of course he knows what Scholesy means; they’ve known each other so long they can just about read each other’s minds, the minute changes in expression. Scholesy twitches his nose and flicks his eyes up towards Gary's patient chart.

"Gaz."

He draws a long, thin breath.

 

 

 

 

David is always there waiting for him, or he is always there waiting for David, whichever way you look at it. He doesn't read the papers anymore so he doesn't know if what's happening is in them, _Aging Superstar Meets Mysterious Brunette_ , however it might go. Doesn't know if Victoria still exists, if his children do, if any of that matters when nothing here is real.

They don't do much. They do everything. They walk the whole of the city, hands in their pockets, shoulders knocking into each other accidentally-on-purpose. They crack jokes and say things they don't mean and mean things they don't say. They don't talk about football.

How long? Five hours every week. That's how long. That's all there is, all the time there is to speak and laugh and press against each other like dead weight in quiet cobblestone alleys and long for something they could never have and never stop to think if they would.

 

 

 

 

And. United.

Gary doesn't know why anyone would build a fake stadium, but he doesn't know why he goes every week, either. Habit or compulsion, the way people who loved football pressed their faces against school fencing or stopped in the park to watch a kickabout, even if it didn't mean anything, even if the standard was shite. Definition. Who you were, the only reason why you were. It isn't Manchester but.

He never plays. It feels like something he mustn't do, as if it would ruin everything somehow. 

David always plays. Every game he's as perfect as he always was, maybe rose tinted glasses and maybe not. Either way Gary begins to understand a little bit of it, the bend-back of David's right foot, left arm stretched out in balance.

 

 

 

 

21:00

 

 

 

 

"I bought a house," David says.

Gary stabs at the gravel on the footpath, drawing a crescent with the tip of his shoe. They're walking along the Irwell up towards Strangeways where the simulation ends. The streets are quieter here. No one tends to want to see the illusion.

"Where?"

"Spinningfields."

"Nice area."

David stops and catches Gary's elbow. Gary stops and turns around to face him. David's face is off in a way you wouldn't notice unless you knew him, something gnawing at him that he doesn't know how to say. David doesn't know how to say a lot of things and Gary's realised this over the years. They both don't.

"What d'you want, Becks?" It's winter and his breath comes out in puffs. "All this. Coming back. Buying a house."

"You," David says miserably, wretchedly, not letting go. "Here."

Gary turns away. There's the sound of a plane low overhead heading for the airport which doesn't exist. Gary wish it did; he'd fly somewhere else right now, anywhere else in the world where it wasn't so damned cold and grey.

"I'm not staying."

"What?"

"When I die. I'm not uploading."

"Why?"

"I don't like looking back." 

He'd spent all of his life telling himself never to look back. Here he is.

David is silent, hurt; Gary can tell from the way his shoulders shift and he pulls slightly away. Doesn't have a reason to be hurt, he thinks with more venom than he ought to. One stays and one goes. That's the only reason there's a story at all.

He keeps walking. David's footsteps catch up behind him, falling back into step, hands shoved into pockets again. Neither of them say anything until they reach the edge.

It's a nebulous mass of grey and nothing, just a wall that seems to go up and up until it disappears into the sky. Flat and untextured as if it were a sheet of glass. Gary puts his hands against the wall and pushes. It doesn't budge.

"I know why you want to stay," he says without looking at David. Turns around. Folds his arms. Leans against the wall. Further up this road, a bit towards the west, and they would have gotten to Bury.

David shivers in the cold wind. His cheeks are red under what light there is.

"Come home with me," he says.

  

 

 

 

Gary follows, because he can't do anything else.

 

 

 

 

The building isn't, contrary to what would have been popular opinion, grand or stately. Just off the bustling pubs and bars on the main streets there's a block of apartments that's tidy without being overdone, and up they ride the lift to the seventh floor. Of course it's the seventh floor, Gary thinks. "It's no Beckingham Palace," he says out loud.

David takes the olive branch with a grin. Inside it's fastidiously neat, coats on the rack, shoes lined up against the wall. Warm-toned fabrics. Tasteful décor. It feels like a showflat.

"You don't like it."

"Doesn't feel like anyone's lived here." An unfair judgement, Gary knows, since David's just bought it, and anyway they're only there five hours a week – but no. David isn't going to be here just five hours a week. Is he.

He walks over to the window. It's one of those full glass ones, shored up with an iron grid and overlooking the street below all dim in yellow light.

"You can't see Old Trafford from here," David says, coming up behind him. Standing so close his breath is warm past Gary's ear.

"It's not Old Trafford," Gary replies automatically. It's not Manchester.

He turns into the kiss he knows is coming. He hasn't ever allowed himself to imagine it, for so long, doesn't know if David has although suspects. Imagination is fantasy is a rabbit hole that never ends. But this; soft lips, the rush of blood through his head, the quiet hum of the room, David melting into him, David's hand in his hair, David's cheeks flushed hot, David; not David; David.

 

 

 

 

In his half-sleep he thinks he hears David's voice, mumbling words that don't form a coherent part of any whole. Hears his name and United's and wonders if the two of them are conflated in David's mind the way they are in his own, like a river lapping into another river until after a thousand years they were known in maps as the sea.

 

 

 

 

So it goes like this.

David plays the game and Gary watches. They go home. They fuck. They sleep. David rests his head on Gary's chest.

The days he's awake don't feel like days, only like a countdown, like when they were kids and all they had to look forward to were Saturday afternoons. It feels for a moment like that, running past the calendar in the kitchen, scrawling at the weekdays with a red marker and asking dad to show them the tickets again.

Almost makes it feel real, Old Trafford, the other one. Almost makes David feel real.

Scholesy puts the bead on Gary's forehead. So it goes like this.

In this other universe, they touch. Run their fingers over each other's skin, laugh lines, rough knees, the loose skin around the knuckles. The golden hairs that line his jaw. In this other universe they joke about running the pub and David growing a moustache. They don't say _leave_ or _stay_ They don't say _I love you_ because they don't need to, and because it feels to both of them like a promise, in their own ways. A promise they can't keep.

 

 

 

 

And they lived –

 

 

 

 

One night instead of going home they go to the pub. David doesn't say why and Gary doesn't ask. They just walk, around the back to Tib Street, the same dim streetlamp, the same double yellow line.

Phil and Scholesy might sell the pub now. No one else to take it on.

Gary chips at the bottom of the building with his foot. All this time spent and he's still surprised when the paint flakes off the wall and onto his shoes, leaving cracks. From the street across there's light and music spilling into where they are. Not Madchester – older, wartime, the kind of ballad Gary always categorised as _We'll Meet Again_ even though it isn't.

David rocks on his heels. "Can we dance?"

And he puts his arms around Gary, curved and lanky and close, without waiting for a reply. Float. Fall. Don't think. Just dance. They've no idea what they're doing and they fall clumsily over each other, over the loose gravel at the side of the road. "Thought you'd be better at this," Gary mumbles into David's shoulder, "all them galas," and David says, "Victoria used to lead," with such seriousness and honesty that Gary can't fault him.

That Gary loves him just a little bit more, this purity or whatever you'd call it, as if he couldn't help but put all of himself into everything, interviews with boyish enthusiasm: _I couldn't have hit it any better. It sorta bent round._

The music stops. They stumble on. Round and round, David keeping time to a song Gary can't hear. Just the two of them. This dark Manchester night, drizzle on the pavement down their shirts.

"Are we friends?" David asks.

He is tired. They both are.

"Uh-huh," Gary says.

 

 

 

 

"Hey."

Scholesy's voice is tremulous and Gary knows what has happened immediately. He stares at the ceiling while Scholesy reads the news, deliberately slowly, like he can barely focus on the words. So it goes like this. Ex-footballing superstar David Beckham died yesterday in his home in London, England. He was 86. It is rumoured that the former Manchester United midfielder has chosen to have his consciousness uploaded to the Manchester simulation developed by company so and so – "it's just gossip here on out," Scholesy says, but that's fine, because Gary already knows what he needed to know.

He doesn't go back that week. He doesn't go back the week after. He doesn't go back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It'd happened sometime last year, falling onto the floor and shaking. Waking up in a white-walled hospital staring at the ceiling not knowing what else to do. His first thought had been to ask about United. You utter bugger, Phil had said, biting his lip.

That was the way stories ended. In a room on a bed with your friends and family around it. Didn't matter when you actually died; you were already dead the moment your head touched that pillow. Except. San Junipero.

It hadn't been his idea; Phil and Trace had found it first, the offshoot and all that, come to him eyes shining. Don't worry about the cost, give it a go, it isn't Manchester but. It's as close to it as anything.

Close to it as anything. The first time he opens his eyes and sees the Rochdale Canal, Oxford Street, it's like he forgets to breathe.

 

 

 

 

19:00

 

 

 

 

He skips the game and goes straight to Spinningfields, past the pubs and up the stairs of the apartment building. Seventh floor. He leans against the wall and waits, tilts back his head and stares at the dim fluorescent landing light. Two hours on the dot before he hears footsteps in the stairwell. David sees him and drops his keys.

"I'd forgotten all this," he says, half about David, half to himself.

The world beyond the hospital. Not just Manchester – even generic things like _sky, legs, turf, sand._ Six years old running across the street ignoring what mother had told them, if only to get to the grass patch for a kickabout. He'd forgotten all this.

David is. David is real as ever, blonde hair boyish grin hazel eyes, like he isn't _dead_ , as if there was any other way to say it that wasn't an open sore. The way he bends down to pick up his keys is the same. His hand on Gary's cheek is the same.

"I thought you'd gone."

"I didn't know if – " he smiles, humourlessly. "How it'd be."

"How is it?"

"You."

"I'm still here," David says, closes the distance between their faces, kisses him softly and slow. "I'm still here," he whispers, so quiet Gary isn't sure if he'd actually said anything at all.

 

 

 

 

00:00

 

 

 

 

It is Manchester. Manchester the way it became, office towers that hide the derelict cotton mills in their shadows, half-filled hotels and football for the corporates, the Hacienda now a bunch of housing flats, grass patches long redeveloped into part of some shopping mall or other, the ghost of the North trying to be something still. He loves it, anyhow, the way you would love anything that once was yours to love. The people that are here. The buildings that refuse to go away, as stubborn as the bees painted on them.

It is. Out there. The wool the wind the twine. _AND ON THE SIXTH DAY, GOD CREATED MANCHESTER._

Scholesy looks up from where he's been reading the football scores. What, he says.

I don't know, Gary says after a long pause, if there's any shame in it.

He dislikes taking back opinions. But then again he disliked looking back, he disliked making mistakes, he's disliked doing anything he's done at least once. Doesn't matter in the end, does it. Life is funny like that.

Scholesy puts a hand on his shoulder. No, he says, tender enough to mean it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In his dreams –

 

 

– David, arms wide open on the ground, busying himself with a snow angel, laughing, beanie sandwiched precariously atop his head threatening to fall off with all the vigorous movement, shouting his name or something else entirely, like ordering a chicken sandwich, his hands balled up in the snow, the smile on his face so wide it might not have been freezing at all but a balmy day on the beach, and in the distance –

 

 

– the pub, a couple months after they'd taken over, counter shiny and nary a bare patch in sight, dark walls and oak floor, Scholesy pouring drinks too fast for anyone to start a conversation, the telly on in the corner up top only ever fixed on one channel, unless the wrong teams were playing and then they'd swap it over quick, and if you took a right when you walked out eventually you'd come to –

 

 

– red, red and blood and dark European nights, just red, and there was nothing else, was there, nothing else to say.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Okay.

Okay?

Yeah.

Okay.

I said that already.

Shut the fuck up.

Okay.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So it goes like this.

 

 

 

 

 

A man walks into a pub. It's the middle of the afternoon on a weekday and there's barely anyone inside. The pub's worn-out in places, the telly threatening to launch a rebellion by falling off its perch at the far corner. The sign that says _Sally Cinnamon_ inside is chipped and hammered on hastily, although it doesn't look shabby, just characteristic. There's no one at the counter either and he has to ring a bell. He keeps looking at the sign like he doesn't want to think.

The pub owner himself comes out and puts a Haig Club whiskey in front of the man. Says, "you know you never paid off your tab."

David looks up and grins. "Stop that," Gary says. "Criminals don't smile like that."

"I'm broke."

"So am I. Just bought a bloody pub."

"So this is real?"

It isn't a question of real or not real, Gary's learnt, dead or not dead. Life is funny like that. It's as real as you want it to be.

And all he wants, really, is this: David across the bar from him, smiling, glass in the middle of the circle of water, not looking away. All he really wants is this.

 

 

"Are we friends?" he asks.

And David says, "Uh-huh."

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- Title from good ol' Billy's [Until the Night](https://genius.com/Billy-joel-until-the-night-lyrics), although actually [This Is the Time](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/billyjoel/thisisthetime.html) fits much better in terms of theme; I just couldn't find a good lyric lmao  
> \- Streets and geography etc. are accurate as always, I actually google street viewed my way around Manchester looking for a place to put the pub (if anyone is interested it's 109 Oldham St, Manchester M4 1LW, also currently an actual pub)  
> \- [Hacienda interior](http://www.6am-group.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/hacienda12.jpg) (it really is a block of flats now)  
> \- [Port Vale](https://www.11v11.com/matches/manchester-united-v-port-vale-05-october-1994-32876) match from '94  
> \- One line from [The Threads that Weave](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tTLm3bZ_ypw) by Mike Garry, along with the 'GOD CREATED MANchester' sign that actually exists
> 
> Thank you for readinggggggg <3


End file.
